Expectant
by maebyfunkebluth
Summary: ex·pect·ant adj. 1. Having expectations. 2. Pregnant: an expectant mother. 3. In expectation expected prospective:an expectant fortune. 4. Full of hope. Hermione is expectant.


This is the angstist Harry Potter fic I've written and I have no idea how it turned out, but I'm proud of it. It is the first Hr/R fic I've written as well, but I love the relationship between them. Please help me out by giving concrit and suggestions, I don't have a beta (please don't run screaming in fear!) and I would really enjoy any suggestions you might have.

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Hermione is hopeful most days. She can't afford not to be. It is almost a choice, this serene optimism of hers, and she knows that the strain of worry and fear of not hoping would destroy everything she has worked to build. So she smiles and she embraces life and love and she looks forward to a time (she is certain that it can't be too far away) where she will be able to let go.

She wears this hope on her face and in her bearing, the way that she buys enough food to last for weeks, the way she talks about job opportunities and future generations. The fact that she talks about the future at all makes people cringe and look at her with sad eyes. They think she is naïve.

One day she is sitting in the library (where else would she be) of Grimmuald Place with Remus Lupin and they are talking about pens.

Hermione likes quills and feathers and ink pots. She likes the feeling that she is writing with history, that she is preserving an ancient tradition that in the Muggle world would be considered archaic.

Lupin has no such fond associations and he equates feathery writing utensils with cramped hands and long assignments for professors and his father's office. He is one of the few wizards that use a fountain pen. Less fuss, less show.

They are arguing quietly, quibbling really, it is light and playful and Hermione rubs her thumb against the bump on her index finger she has acquired from writing so much, as if all the talk about pens and quills has left her with an urge to complete some ancient Potions essay.

But then Hermione makes comment about how in the future (she has to keep using these words, why doesn't anyone understand?) of Hogwarts, she's sure the children will switch to more modern forms of writing.

Lupin's face goes tense, not noticeably, but she can see the stress lines around his eyes and the corners of his mouth are pulled taught.

Hermione rests a hand upon her stomach. She feels like it is enormous, but she knows that Lupin cannot tell.

In the future, she repeats, _the children will switch to more modern forms of writing._

It is a command.

Lupin nods and leaves the library.

That night she sneaks into Ron's bed to talk. He shares a room with Harry, but Harry has learned to be a heavy sleeper in the past months.

She lies on top of the covers and he underneath.

"In the future," she says, "what will the children learn about the war?"

"Depends really," whispers Ron, who already looks ready to fall asleep.

Hermione is wide awake.

"How can anyone learn this?' she asks.

"By living it," replies Ron, who has become shockingly poetical over the past months.

"Can you unlearn it?" asks Hermione again.

"Some people can, I think, I don't know about us though. We've lived it for too long."

"Do you think you could just not ever learn in the first place?"

"Hermione, do you think you could ever _not_ _learn_ something?"

"Not me."

"Who then?" says Ron grumpily because he really wants to go to sleep.

"The children."

"The children won't have to live it if we do a good enough job."

Ron is talking about the future, but for once Hermione is not.

"There's not enough time," whispers Hermione in a voice that is only a breath.

When Harry wakes up Hermione is gone. Harry has no proof that Ron and Hermione are sharing a bed, but he knows it without any.

"Did she leave?" he questions.

"Don't know what you're talking about mate," replies Ron, who almost has a grin on his face.

They go downstairs and meet with Tonks to plan the next attack.

Hermione stays in the library. This morning she is too tired to research and she falls asleep on a book, the page she is reading her pillow.

Arthur Weasley finds her.

She wakes up to his worried voice.

"Hermione, are you alright?"

"Yes," she answers, which is the right answer but it makes her feel nauseous.

"Excuse me," she says, and she walks calmly to the bathroom to throw up in the toilet.

She jumps when she finds out that Mr. Weasley has waited outside the bathroom door for her.

"Hermione, are you all right?" he asks again.

She nods and smiles at him.

"Does anyone know?" he asks.

"No," she says, "I don't even know myself, not officially."

"You should see a Healer," he says,

"I'm fine," she assures him, her voice as strong as she can manage.

"That was more of an order than a suggestion," Mr. Weasley says, his voice overpowering hers.

"I'll take you up on that later when I have enough time. I'm sure they'll be enough time soon."

"There's never going to be enough time, and right now we seem to have a slight surplus. We should go now, we could take the Tube!" Mr. Weasley's voice gets slightly giddy at the end.

It should be awkward taking the train through Muggle London with the father of your (this is far from the right word, but the other possibilities are much worse) boyfriend to find out if you are pregnant with his son's child, but this is the most fun Hermione's had in weeks.

The last time she was around this many non-wizards was when the Death Eaters terrorized a village last week and Hermione had gone to help with the Oblivating. Erasing minds came easy to her, she was good at taking what was needed and not leaving behind a mess of scrambled neurons. It made her feel horrible afterwards and she hated being stuck on Oblivator duty.

When they arrive at St. Mungoes, Hermione is almost happy given the circumstances.

They are directed to wait in a small room that has a large enchanted window of a meadow and scowling portraits of famous wizarding healers hanging on the walls.

"We'll be with you in a moment," chirps a young woman wearing pink robes.

Half an hour later, Hermione is in a small cramped room by herself, sitting down on a rather comfortable bed.

A strict faced woman Healer walks in, asks Hermione her age, weight, and height and begins to fill in a sheet of parchment as Hermione answers her.

"Are you going to ask what's wrong with me?" she asks, testing the waters with this formidable looking woman.

"Your father already filled out the preliminary forms," says the Healer.

Hermione almost corrects her but stops herself. Maybe in the future Mr. Weasley will be her father. It is a comforting thought.

The Healer takes out some vials from a cabinet and begins to mix a clear potion in a small cup. She hands Hermione the cup.

"Drink this."

Hermione does. It doesn't have much taste but it leaves a bitter feeling in her mouth.

The woman begins to mix another potion, magenta colored this time, which she pours into a small eyedropper.

"Hold out your hand," says the Healer.

Hermione does so, feeling no small amount of trepidation.

There is a cool drop of potion on the inside of her wrist, and immediately a small circular magenta stain appears.

"This potion is an indicator that will react with the potion already inside your body. If it turns blue then it is positive, and if it stays magenta then it is negative."

Hermione wills it not to change colors, but before her eyes the stain turns robin's egg blue, the color of the crayons she played with as a child.

"Congratulations," says the Healer tersely.

Hermione leaves the room and walks out of the hospital with Mr. Weasley.

When the train reaches their stop, she asks him a question.

"How did you know?"

"You do realize I have seven children, don't you?"

Hermione giggles a little. But not really, because Hermione hates people who giggle.

That night Hermione crawls into Ron's bed again. He has a bad bruise on his left shoulder, so she lies on his right side.

"Have you come to ask me deep and meaningful questions?" he asks.

"What do you think?" she snaps.

"I don't know, that's why I'm asking," he grumbles.

She kisses his forehead.

"Do you wanna go get a midnight snack?" he beseeches, looking at her with big eyes.

She slowly climbs out of bed. They tiptoe down the stairs to the kitchen and Ron finds a plate of fudge that Mrs. Weasley brought over yesterday. He cuts himself a huge piece and she cuts herself a sliver.

It is dark in the kitchen, and Hermione casts a _lumos_, her wand tip illuminating her arm.

Ron's gaze finds the mark on her wrist, not hidden by her daytime robes.

Hermione freezes.

"What does that mean?" he asks softly.

"It means I'm pregnant," she replies, her voice not ashamed but quavering at the same time.

"WHAT?" he exclaims.

His face is bright red with shock.

"WHAT?" he screeches.

"Shh," she whispers, but it is too late. His voice echoes around the house and she hopes no one hears.

"Since when?" he asks, his voice too loud.

"I guess it must be three months," she answers.

"Three months?" his voice is shrill again.

There is a sound, and Hermione turns to see an exhausted-looking Remus Lupin enter the kitchen.

"Not everyone in the house has werewolf hearing, but I would keep it down," he says.

"How much did you hear?" asks Hermione.

"Not much," says Lupin, "just shouting."

Ron is still bright red.

"How could this have happened?" he asks quietly to no one in particular.

"How could what have happened?" questions Remus.

Hermione and Ron both ignore him.

"You know how it happened, Ronald," says Hermione dangerously.

"Well so do you," Ron retorts.

"Are you saying it's my fault?" Hermione is beginning to get incensed.

"Well you were saying it was mine!"

"I never said that!"

"You never said anything Hermione, it's been three bloody months and you didn't even tell me!"

"I didn't even really know until today!"

"Yes, but you must've known something."

"Why? Why did I have to have had known something? I've been a little preoccupied lately."

"You knew sometime! You should've told me! Were you even going to tell me now that you know for sure? Were you just going to tell me when it was convenient for you? I'm a part of this too!"

"I wasn't going to tell you until I knew how you would react!"

"No, you just weren't going to tell me! You were just going to keep on sneaking into my room and asking me mysterious questions until you got sick of me and decided not to tell me at all!"

Ron leaves the room.

Hermione, much to her dismay, starts to cry.

Lupin looks shocked.

"What's wrong?" he asks hesitatingly, almost like he's afraid of the answer.

"Nothing," says Hermione, who is still crying, "I'll feel better in a little bit."

"Tell me," Lupin says forcefully, "it doesn't seem like nothing, and you've been out of sorts for weeks. We need you Hermione, you're very important to the work we're doing. I'm not going to tell you that you're very important to Ron, or to Harry, or to Ginny or Tonks or anyone because that's not my place. They can tell you that, and they already have. You need to be _here_ one hundred percent otherwise you're going to get hurt, or more likely someone else is. You don't have to give me any details, just tell me what's wrong."

Hermione sits down in one of chairs at the kitchen table,

"I'm pregnant," she says.

She looks over at Lupin's face and sees he is completely shocked.

"I'm pregnant,' she repeats for clarification.

"It's Ron's?"

"Yes."

"You aren't in a good situation to have a baby."

"I know."

"You're eighteen and fighting a war."

"I know. Lupin, can you keep this a secret? It's not a good time right now."

Lupin nods.

Hermione sleeps in Ron's bed, she sneaks in next to him under the covers once he's snoring.

"Ron," she whispers.

"Ron," she repeats louder.

"Ron!"

He snores and the sound makes her want to hit him with his pillow.

"RON!"

"Huh?" mumbles Ron groggily.

"It'll turn out alright. No one believes it, but I'm sure that everything will turn out fine."

Ron's arm snakes around her shoulder.

They don't talk about the baby for the next three months. Hermione doesn't do fieldwork anymore, strictly behind the scenes stuff. She doesn't really see anyone in person apart from Harry and Ron, the rest are disembodied heads in her fireplace. The outside world doesn't come into contact with her.

Harry hasn't noticed, he's been in his own world, thoughts swirling around him everywhere he goes, a constant crust of dried blood beneath his fingernails. Hermione has also placed a slight Disillusionment charm on her stomach, along with a Repelling Jinx so that people will be inclined to stay a couple paces away from her.

Hermione is still hopeful and she still talks about the future, even as it becomes obvious that many of the people she cares about aren't going to make it to see the future.

Grimmuald Place has become her sanctuary; she feels safe in the library amongst the books. She misses the playfulness of Hogwarts though, and she wishes it were safe for her to be there.

She is wishing for Madam Pince to shush her when Harry appears in the fireplace, sooty and grim.

"Where's Ron?" Hermione asks frantically.

"Hospital," says Harry.

"What's wrong?"

"The attack didn't go as planned, a group of junior Death Eaters was there and we waited, they were so young, but someone must've noticed and they alerted the reinforcements without our noticing- Rodolphus was there and there were some Dementors."

"What happened to Ron?"

"He's hurt, I don't know what with or what's wrong with him, but it's bad."

"I need to see him."

"I know. Hermione, Mr. Weasley's dead."

Hermione chokes on the air and cannot speak. Harry guides her to the fireplace and Hermione steps into the fire and into a waiting room at St. Mungoes.

Hermione hasn't been out of Grimmuald Place except to buy groceries and pick up the newspaper (The Quibbler, which she has grudgingly become fond of now that Luna writes most of it). There are so many people; the entire Weasley family is there along with Fleur and Remus and Tonks and McGonagall and Moody.

They all stare at her, their eyes scanning her leaving behind cold trails all over her body.

She doesn't know what to say. She doesn't speak.

Molly Weasley comes over and embraces Hermione. Her arms are warm around Hermione's back and Hermione wants to cry.

Molly's eyes seem unfocused as they flit from person to person, and Hermione recognizes the shell-shocked look in her eyes from when she used to go into battle.

"Mrs. Weasley," says Hermione.

Molly doesn't look at her for a moment, but then Hermione's voice reaches her ears.

"Yes dear?" asks Molly, who isn't really listening.

"I'm sorry," says Hermione.

Molly starts to cry. Huge sobs wrack her body and no one in the room can look at her.

Hermione's eyes search for an exit, and they find one in form of a red-headed boy walking into the room.

"Ron!" she cries and rushes over to hug him.

"I was so worried, I didn't know what was wrong, I thought something happened to you, I was so scared, are you alright?" Hermione's words whoosh out of her and her arms tighten around Ron's shoulders with each syllable she speaks.

Then the silence in the room envelops her and she feels horrible and selfish for being happy now that Mr. Weasley is gone. Dead.

"I'm so sorry," she whispers in his ear.

Ron is silent. He observes his mother weeping in the corner of the room, Fred and George on either side of her.

Ron leans into Hermione's embrace, and they stay that way for a minute. Then the baby kicks.

The Disillusionment charm Hermione's placed on herself doesn't have that much effect on touch, and so Ron can feel her large abdomen. He can also feel the baby kick, but he hasn't before. There hasn't been much time for touch in a long time.

"What was that?" Ron yelps.

Everyone looks at them, and Hermione looks at the floor.

"I stepped on his foot," she says, but no one really cares, they just want a distraction for the sadness that is filling up the air.

Hermione takes Ron's hand and leads him out of the room. They walk down one of the hospital corridors until they find a small empty alcove. Hermione drags Ron into it and places his hand on her stomach. She mutters a charm under her breath and the Disillusionment is taken off.

"That was our baby Ron," she whispers.

Ron looks like his is about to cry and his eyelids flutter up and down.

"Your father was the first one to know about it," says Hermione in what she hopes is a calming voice, "He figured it out and approached me about it. He took me to St. Mungoes to make sure that the baby was alright. He helped us."

"We should go back," says Ron.

"After the war we can tell our baby all about him."

Ron doesn't meet her eyes, but Hermione can't let that deter her. She has hope. She can't afford not to.


End file.
